Crown of the Empire

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The morning of departure began the way most of my mornings did: with a headache disguised as responsibility.

By the time the sun filtered through the drapes of our estate, the entire staff was buzzing as if a head of state were arriving, not a man I swore I'd never let under my skin. I had already chosen my armor—a tailored ivory coat over a black turtleneck, wide-legged trousers, and boots sharp enough to kill. Old-money elegance, without trying too hard. Russians respected restraint.

I was brushing a final stroke of lipstick when I heard it. The low growl of an engine that was too smooth, too expensive, too out-of-place for the Manila morning rush.

Curious, I stepped toward the window.

And my heart tripped.

The car glided up the driveway like it owned the ground it touched—sleek, black, polished to a mirror shine. A Rolls-Royce Phantom. Of course. Because why just pick someone up when you can roll up in a car that screamed dynasty louder than a brass band?

I muttered under my breath, "You have got to be kidding me."

Jules, who decided to sleepover to see the spectacle this morning, sprawled across a chaise like he'd been born in Versailles, perked up. "What's he driving?"

I yanked the curtains wider. "A Phantom."

Jules gasped like a starlet in a soap opera. "Be still, my proletariat heart."

The car door opened. And there he was.

Nikolai Sebastian Romanov Takedo, stepping out in a charcoal overcoat, gloves, and the kind of presence that made the air itself tense. His posture screamed command; his silence, authority. He didn't look around, didn't gawk. He arrived. Like the driveway had been built for him.

Of course, it had. Everything probably was.

"Mariya," came my mother's voice behind me.

I turned. She was already dressed, as if she had known he would insist on seeing her before taking me. Katerina Romanov had nothing on Ellesandra Vergara when it came to elegance—my mother may not have the aristocratic weight of a Romanov, but she had the Spanish-Filipino grace of an Antonio turned Vergara. Even with faint lines under her eyes, she looked every inch the woman who had once walked runways and ballrooms with my father.

She approached me, touched my cheek lightly, then adjusted the collar of my coat. "Remember who you are."

"I know," I said.

Her gaze softened. "Then go."

We descended together. The air in the foyer was thick with staff trying not to stare, the tension of two dynasties brushing shoulders under one roof. Nikolai stood by the door, immaculate, his eyes cutting toward me the moment I appeared.

"Miss Vergara," he greeted. Smooth. Low. Too calm.

"Mr. Romanov Takedo," I shot back.

For a moment, silence hummed. Our families' ghosts practically filled the marble hall.

Then my mother stepped forward. "So you're the man whisking away my daughter to Moscow."

Nikolai inclined his head. "Yes, Madam Vergara. I assure you, she'll be safe."

I snorted softly. "Safe isn't the word I'd use."

He flicked his gaze to me, sharp as a scalpel. "I don't deal in words. I deal in guarantees."

Mother's lips quirked—amused, maybe approving. "Then she's in your hands."

I blinked. Excuse me? Hands? Whose side was she on?